Witness

23. Kaiden

Fucked. 

Absolutely fucked. 

I'm not the sort of person who panics. Ever, really. 

He's going to make me testify. 

Damien's going to make her testify what? That Tony is normal? That he didn't try and kill the most random fucking person in the world? 

Damien Mierro thinks things through. He's smart and calculated, but this feels... random. Dumb. Unorganised, like he didn't have time to think of an answer so clung to Chelsea as a means of having something. 

He's forcing her to lie. He's forcing her to stick around. He's forcing his fucking organisation down her throat as if she's one of his dogs. 

My fist curls around the steering wheel. 

"What if you don't go?" 

"What?" She asks, voice shaky and small. Her eyes, which have been glued to the front window as we drive across town, flit to me briefly. "What do you mean, not go? If I don't go..." 

"What will happen?" 

"I don't know," she huffs. "He'll kill me." 

My stomach lurches. 

"No jokes. Seriously, what will he do?"

"Seriously?" She sighs. "Seriously, if I don't go, I have absolutely no idea what he'll do. My best guess is that he'll show up outside my house in of those range rovers and knock on the door, pissed as fuck. My mother would have a field day." 

"Oh yeah?" 

Chelsea doesn't talk about family much, at least not with me. I've only gotten brief passings about them - her sister seems insane, her dad used to love the burnt out hotel. She has a brother she rarely sees. That's it. No more information. Nada. 

At least, nothing from her directly. 

But that's to be expected in my line of business. Snooping comes naturally. 

"Uh huh, she'd love a big tattooed gangster on the door. You should see her with Noah. It's like we're in the sixties." 

"Not a fan of the tattoos?" 

"She's a complicated anomaly. Pray you never have to deal with her."

We're buffering. Stifling the blow. 

Distracting ourselves in every format the word. 

Because each mile I drive forward, we're one mile closer to his house. One mile closer to actually having to address the real problem. 

James Hartley is awake. 

I have messages from three different cops on my phone about it. Reed hasn't said a word, of course, because for top dog he certainly seems to be quite far down the department gossip list. I'm already expecting the panicked phone call later. 

"Oh my God," Chelsea mutters as we stop at a red light. "Oh my God, what do you think he's going to say?" 

"You called him a gangster just now," I realise. 

"What?" She huffs. 

"Damien, the non-gangster you always stick up for. You called him a gangster. Imagine that, his very own princess turning on him, after all." 

"Are you panicking at all? I know you don't like me but could you pretend to care just a little bit?"

I'm driving fifteen miles per hour in a forty zone, but sure, I don't care at all.